Divorce? My parents? I put a hand against the wall, woozy.
“No,” my mother says sharply, pulling back and glaring down at him in astonished outrage. “Stop it, Nicky! Oh my God, don’t you dare talk like that to me!” She grabs his forehead, leans over and kisses it again, hard this time, like she’s trying to push the kiss right into his mind. “I love you. My God, you and Rowie are my life, we’re a family and I am not walking away from that!” She jiggles his arm. “Do you hear me? I’m not, Nicky. I love you.”
He nods, tears slipping out from beneath the hand covering his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I really am.”
“Honey . . .” She gazes down at him, helpless, and for the first time I see the frustration I know so well and feel so guilty about on her face, and a cold wash of fear floods my veins because I really thought she had it all under control, that she knew something more than I did about helping him, maybe even that he was different in private with her, better and not worse, but now . . .
“Come on, sit up,” my mother says gently, petting his forehead. “Rowan’s gonna be home soon and she’s so excited about this prom. Come on.”
I fall back a step before they see me, knees wobbling, and then another until I hit the sun porch door, my heart thundering in my ears. Fumble it open and slam it again, call out a strangled, “I’m home,” and seizing the Nordstrom bag, go right up to my room, unable to look at either one of them for fear of giving myself away.
But I needn’t have worried as by the time I get ahold of myself and come back downstairs my father is out in the wood shop and my mother painting the dining room, and nobody but me seems to notice that we’re all home tonight but none of us are really here.
Never deprive someone of hope; it may be all they have.
—H. JACKSON BROWN JR.
Chapter 20
My father is up again on Saturday morning, sitting at the table drinking coffee and gazing out the window.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, pouring myself a quick cup because I got up late and really have to run to make it to work by eight.
“Hey, Row,” he says, looking over. “So I hear you have a prom tonight.”
“Yeah,” I say, searching his face, noting the effort behind his simple question.
He nods. “When your mother told me, my first thought was that you were going with Eli but then she said no, his name was Sean.”
“Shane,” I say. “And we’re just friends.”
He sets his cup on the placemat. “Is Eli going?”
“No,” I say, pouring half-and-half in my cup and stirring it. “He didn’t get a ticket in time.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” He mulls a moment. “You know, I called him once, right after the video aired, just to see how he was doing. Caught him at a really low moment, poor guy.” He sighs. “He’s got a lot of weight on his shoulders for someone so young. He could have used a nice night out with a pretty girl.”
“What kind of weight?” I say, and take a sip of coffee, watching him over the rim.
My father runs a hand over his stubbly chin. “His mother. The dog. His future. Graduating. Moving to a strange place. Catching flak because of that video. Feeling like he should be there for Sammy’s mother because she’s falling apart. Losing his dad . . .”
“But that was over a year ago.” And then I think of Eva still teary about her son after forty years and of my own grandparents, my father’s parents gone for two years, and—
“It’s too much pain,” my father says, shaking his head.
Great. Somehow I’ve knocked whatever good mood he had right out of him and that leaves me both irritated that it’s still so easy, that good moods have somehow become rare and fragile things easily crushed by normal life, and mad at myself for being such a jerk. “I’m sorry.”
“I worry about him,” my father says quietly, looking back out the window. “I hope he’s all right.”
“He is. We had lunch together Thursday and he was fine, so don’t worry anymore, okay?” I dump the rest of the coffee, set the cup in the sink and force a bright smile. “I’m getting off of work early to get ready for tonight. You have to take a picture with me when I’m dressed. It’ll be a new tradition.”
“We’ll see,” he says without looking at me.
“Okay, well, I really have to go or I’m gonna be late.” I hesitate, then lean over and give him a hug and a quick kiss on the temple. “You good?”
He nods again, head bent, and a tear splashes down onto his hand.
And there it is, that flash of impatience mixed with helplessness creating the dilemma that twists me up inside: Stay or go? If I stay I embarrass him, will be late for work, feel like I’m coddling and encouraging him, but if I go I’m disregarding his pain, ignoring it, saying, Look, I know you’re sad but life goes on, and it makes me feel cold and uncaring and guilty. “Okay, well,” I say, backing up a step, and as I turn to leave I spot another bag of uniforms. “You want me to take these in and get them cleaned, too?”
He clears his throat. “Yes, and there’s a tie in there, too. Make them for today.”
“Okay,” I say, and, relieved, grab the purse and the bag. “Oh, but I made the other one for next week.”
“That’s all right. I just want some clean uniforms hanging in my closet again.” This time he does glance up at me, his eyes dark and wet. “I want them there waiting for me when I’m ready.” He looks away, toys with the place mat. “You have a good day.”
“I will, you too,” I say, and hope it doesn’t sound as hollow as it feels.
Chapter 21
The best part about a crazy day like this is that it keeps me running and doesn’t leave me time to think about anything but dry cleaning.
I leave work at four, exhausted, excited, with Eva’s good wishes ringing in my ears, and am halfway across the parking lot before I realize that I forgot my father’s uniforms and have to run all the way back to get them. Think briefly about checking on the ones due for next week but decide this batch is heavy and awkward enough, slippery in its plastic bag and a real pain in the ass to jog all the way home with since I have to keep stopping and making sure I haven’t lost his tie.
I burst into the house to find my mother putting new batteries in the camera and my father sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. He’s wearing jeans and a sport shirt, and he’s shaved.
“What time is the limo coming?” my mother calls as I zoom through and up the stairs.
“Wait, I’ll be back after I take a shower,” I yell, hanging the uniforms on my parents’ bedroom door and ripping my clothes off as I head for the bathroom.
By the time I’m done my skin is glowing from the heat and my fingers are pruny but I’m soft, shaved and smooth. I bundle my hair in a towel, throw on my bathrobe and barrel back down the stairs.
“Whew,” I say, fanning myself and grabbing a bottled water. “The cleaner’s was nuts today.” I take a sip and lean back against the counter, surveying my parents. “You guys look nice.” My father looks almost normal, and my mother’s wearing one of her work outfits, navy blue slacks with a fitted fuchsia pullover.
“Thank you,” she says with a smile. “I didn’t have time to touch up my roots, though.” She runs a self-conscious hand over her shiny brown hair. “I was hoping they wouldn’t show in the pictures but now I don’t know.” She sighs. “I usually have some dye in stock but the last time I stopped at the drugstore all the chestnut brown was gone! I thought about using another color but . . .” She glances at my father, waiting for his automatic protest, because he’s always loved her hair that color, says it’s exactly the same shade as when they first met and makes her eyes look just as pretty as a fawn’s.
He shifts in the chair but doesn’t say anything and only I see the disappointment cross her face.
“No one’s gonna notice, Mom,” I say, and, reaching out, playfully fluff her hair. “It looks great. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with mine yet.” I shrug. “Probably just curl
it or something. I’ll save the updo for my own prom, if I even go.”
My mother takes the bait, never guessing it was a deliberate diversion, and gives me the rules while I nod and drink my water—yes, I’ll be home when it’s over; no, no drinking; yes, I’ll have my phone with me if something goes wrong and I need a ride; no, no staying out all night, and on and on.
My father doesn’t say anything, just sits and listens, eyes downcast.
And then it’s time to run and do my makeup, my hair—long, tousled curls sprayed to within an inch of their lives—and put on a strapless bra and stockings. I slither into Nadia’s red gown, somehow manage to zip it up and look in the mirror.
I gaze wide-eyed at my reflection for a moment and burst out laughing. “Oh my God, they’re never going to let me out of the house in this!”
It’s a bombshell dress, hot, sleek and fitted, with a strapless sweetheart bodice, shirred waist and mermaid bottom. I turn and look over my shoulder to check out my butt.
“Oh boy,” I say weakly, eyeing the curves. “Who knew?”
I reach back into the Nordstrom bag and pull out a clutch purse and Nadia’s mother’s shoes, which are gorgeous, scarlet, thin-strapped stilettos that shoot me up another four inches. Next, a black and red embroidered silk wrap in case it gets chilly, and underneath all of that is a pair of huge, thin gold hoop earrings and matching bangle bracelets.
The only thing missing is a necklace, but as I stand there ogling myself, knowing I’ll probably never look this hot again, I decide I don’t even need one.
“Rowan? The limo just pulled up out front and there’s a boy in a tux coming to the door,” my mother calls excitedly. “Are you almost ready?”
“Yes,” I say, spraying on a sultry, floral musk cologne and tossing my makeup, brush, phone and money into the clutch. “Coming.” I take one last look at myself, tweeze a small rogue clump of black mascara from the edge of an eyelash, smooth on lip gloss—God, if only I was going with Eli tonight—and, taking a deep breath, square my shoulders and walk slowly out of my room and down the stairs to the foyer.
“—home right after it’s over,” my mother is telling Shane when she turns and sees me. Her eyes widen, her jaw drops, and she looks like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Shane reaches around her to give me an enthusiastic high five. “Hot.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“You look beautiful, Rowie,” my father says gruffly, his gaze soft with a mixture of love, sorrow and pride, with a look that says, I know you have to grow up but God, I don’t want you to, and brings an answering rush of tears to my eyes.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I say, and, blinking hard, turn to my mother, who gives me a We’ll talk about that dress later look and then hugs me and arranges us all for pictures.
It takes effort but my father rallies and participates, and in an off moment while my mother is talking to Shane, he slides his arm around me almost tentatively, as if he’s afraid I’ll slap it away or something, and murmurs, “Remember when you were little and you’d come out to the wood shop and sing me that song over and over so I could learn it, too?”
And I laugh and say, “Wow, I haven’t thought about that in ages. What song? I don’t remember.”
“I do,” he says, and sings me a soft verse of “Butterfly Fly Away.”
It knocks the wind out of me because yes, now I do remember, but I never thought he would.
“Those were good days,” he says quietly, looking down at me.
“Yes, they were,” I whisper, and smile not for the camera but for him, for me and for us, because at this moment I truly believe we are fine, that everything is going to be all right and we really are going to make it.
Chapter 22
Shane gives me a bracelet corsage—gold wire, red ribbon and a fabulous white orchid—but I forget all about his boutonniere until we pick up Nadia, gorgeous in sapphire blue, and Brett, and Nadia hands me a small florist box.
“Shane’s boutonniere,” she says with a grin. “Never say I don’t have your back, girl.”
“I won’t.” I take the flower from the box and try to pin it on his lapel, jabbing him when the limo driver makes a turn. “Sorry,” I say, grimacing, and make sure it works the second time.
“No problem,” he says, glancing down at it and nodding. “You do nice work.”
And it hits me as funny and a little sad, too, that this is my first formal dance, that I look better than I ever have before and that I’m here with someone I only like as a friend.
“Woo-hoo,” Nadia calls, bouncing in the cushy seat and beaming as the limo pulls up to the Hilton. “Check it out, people. We have arrived!”
Her enthusiasm is catching and suddenly it doesn’t matter that this isn’t going to be the most romantic night of my life, because the driver is opening our door and I can hear the Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling” echoing out of the speakers.
The driver treats us like royalty, helping us out of the car, and even though there’s no red carpet there are velvet ropes holding back a decent-sized crowd of parents and underclassmen who smile and stare, take pictures and video. The fading light is tinged golden, the dusky sky smudged pink, and the breeze teases our hair, ruffles our gowns.
It’s amazing.
Shane flicks the hair from his eyes and, smiling, offers me his arm. “Ready?”
“Absolutely,” I say, sliding my hand through the crook of his elbow and turning toward the doors.
We’ve taken maybe two steps when Shane stops dead and says, “Oh shit, wait—” and suddenly there’s a short girl in a pink gown planted in front of me, a girl with cold fury in her narrowed eyes and an astonishing eight inches of naked cleavage bulging out of her neckline.
“Get the fuck away from him, bitch!” she croaks, and body-checks me so hard my hand is ripped from Shane’s arm and I fly backward into the limo driver.
All hell breaks loose. The driver catches me and I hang there stunned. The sounds of Tonight’s gonna be a good night, gasps from the crowd and Nadia’s shrill “Oh my God, Rowan!” blend with the strange roaring in my ears. The principal and one of the teachers run toward us from the edge of the crowd. The driver carefully sets me back on my feet. Nadia gazes at me with huge, stricken eyes. My chest aches where Becca’s shoulder hit, because of course it’s her, and of course it was never all right that Shane went to prom without her. And as the teacher picks up my clutch bag and hands it back, asking if I’m all right, and some idiot in the crowd chants, “Fight, fight!” I take a deep, shaky breath and, burning with embarrassment, turn and look straight into Eli’s dark, astonished gaze.
Chapter 23
The sight of him standing there behind the velvet rope in jeans and a T-shirt, Daisy sitting by his side, wrenches something open deep inside of me and to my horror, tears fill my eyes.
“Rowan,” Nadia calls from behind me.
“Rowan?” the teacher says.
“Yo, bitch,” Becca croaks furiously. “Get your skanky ass away from my boyfriend and—”
“Easy,” the principal says, warning her.
“You okay?” Eli says, searching my face.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Daisy rises, ears up and tail wagging, and gives me an expectant look.
“Rowan, we’d like to try to figure this out,” the teacher says from behind me.
“Rowan, come on,” Nadia calls.
Eli’s gaze flickers past me to Shane, who now has Becca clinging to his arm and is looking very uncomfortable, and then back to me. “This doesn’t look good.”
“No, I know,” I say in a husky voice, feeling like a fool.
“I thought she’d be kicking his ass, not yours.”
“Major miscalculation,” I say, because even though my heart is still pounding and my adrenaline high, my sense of the absurd has also kicked in.
“Yeah, hmm.” Eli nods, thoughtful, and strokes the little black soul patch under his
bottom lip. “So if there’s no real reason to stick around, unless you plan on fighting her for him—”
I snort. “Not hardly.”
“—then how about I buy you a cup of coffee instead?”
“Rowan, come on,” Nadia yells. “What’re you doing?”
“Rowan?” the teacher says, and all around us people are babbling, recording this whole mess with their iPhones, gossiping, staring, and in the background is the pulsing reminder that tonight is gonna be a good night.
“That’ll work,” I say, and, putting a hand on his arm for balance, lean over and pry off Nadia’s mother’s stilettos. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Funny how nothing can turn into something when you least expect it.
Chapter 24
“So I guess we’re not going to Dunkin’ Donuts,” I say as he leads me off down a ramshackle side street and pauses in front of a cloudy glass door with an old, faded cup of coffee painted on it. “What is this place?”
“You’ve never been here?” he says in amazement, and then goes on to tell me that not only do they have the best coffee in town but the atmosphere kicks ass, too. “Come on, you’ll see.” He opens the door and ushers me through. “After you.”
The place is dark, cozy, delicious with the scent of ground beans and, from what I can see, empty except for the trio set up and playing a song in the corner of the room.
The barista blinks when he sees me, exchanges a casual hey with Eli and tells us to sit anywhere we want.
“I can’t believe he let Daisy in,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him and feeling the dog brush against my legs under the table and settle down with a sigh on my feet. “That’s really cool.”
“Yeah, they’re usually pretty good about it. I never bring her when they’re crowded but it’s still early tonight and there’s really nobody here yet, so . . .” He shrugs, smiling, and glances over at the corner of the shadowy room where the trio, two middle-aged guys with guitars and a woman with lap bongos and a bunch of rhythm instruments, is softly playing and singing Maroon 5’s “Out of Goodbyes.” “I’ve seen these guys before. They play a lot of older stuff but they’re good.”